


And the World Remained Still

by allsovacant



Series: something to cry on [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, Pain, Regret, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 01:43:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14885250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant
Summary: Somehow London is unaware of the fate of two men, who have met their tragic end—A Shakespearean tale in a bright afternoon—where inside 221B, Baker Street, the world remained still.





	And the World Remained Still

**Author's Note:**

> I fell out of my fluff element at the moment. And I feel really ashamed because i have a WIP with that genre, but see here: THIS is a rush fic—I am again bringing you death—and this time, I hit two birds with one stone.  
> *hides in the closet*
> 
> P.S. All mistakes the grammar police will point out are all mine. So, forgive me. English and me aren't friends.

_It has been two years since his bestfriend died._  
But the memories of that tragic day has been carved to his whole being.  
The pain etched to his soul.  
Their row, the last phone call—his 'note', his Fall—All of these ricocheted inside his head like a stray bullet. And with every single part it hits he dies. And he is. He feels so lifeless. So tired. So exhausted. 

__

__

The one that gave him another chance in life has been stolen from him.  
The one that he wanted for so long to have has been taken away from him.  
The most important person in his life. Gone. And he wanted to go too. And he will. Now. 

221B remained still as well as the man sitting in the old patched-up armchair. With ragged breathing and a tear stricken face, he remembered when he got shot in the army and was sent home, everyday was a decision to make.  
A decision to wake up and a decision to sleep forever.  
The handgun he owns was his judge.  
And when he met his bestfriend, the trial of his life has been canceled. The decision the judge had to make has been forgotten— Or so he thought. 

The man raised a shaking hand that holds his handgun, closer to his temple.  
He's holding onto it since the night before, without a wink of sleep until the dawn of chorus interrupted his thoughts, a reminder of another new day.  
Another decision to make.  
But today is going to be the last one.  
Because the trial has now been reopened.  
And now the judge has laid down its verdict. 

He closed his eyes blocking every single thought to enter his mind and leaving just one. 

_**"Sherlock.** " the man murmured, as he pulled the trigger._

⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙

It's as if dying made time slow.  
John wondered if it's the same as how Sherlock felt when he's falling off the rooftop. Free of thoughts, of feelings, of tomorrows, of decisions to make—and then John is slipping away. He slipped off his armchair, his surroundings fading before his eyes—his body slowly touched the carpeted floor—and just as his eyes are closing—the door of 221B bursts open, and the last thing that John saw was a head with familiar dark curls, a blur of a tear-stricken face, a blurry hand slowly reaching out to his hand lying limp on the floor and his name—his name seem to sound from afar from a voice that is broken and full of regret.

"John..."

⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙

_The tall man with a head of dark curls gracefully ran the steps to the second floor of the flat like he used to two years ago. He was sweating and his hands are shaking. An hour ago before leaving his hiding place in a panic, he received an unknown source code that meant a decision is going to be made again by a life he once died saving—and that this time, it might be the last._

_In those days, two years ago, when he started the secret mission his country has bestowed to him, he almost got used to it. He watched nervously from his laptop—from one of the secret cameras hidden in their flat, the man he claimed to be his bestfriend. And that wholeheartedly, claimed to be his bestfriend, in return. He watched as the man transfer to his bedroom from the second floor going down to an armchair in the living room, holding a gun in his hand. And making a decision every day. Doing it again the next day and so on and so on. But every time it happens, he still couldn’t seem to have a grasp about it. Why would a man continuously sit on the edge of his bed—or to sit on an armchair—or stare at the wall—drinking whisky and scotch? To some, the truth is plain to see. But to him who doesn’t need with feelings, its continuous puzzle, and a mystery. But today is different. Today the man is holding a gun. The man wanted to die. The thought that finally made the tall man abandon his hiding place for two years—but the reason, that’s what he wanted to know. Because to the tall man, reasoning about feelings is never an advantage. And that it shows to him, as he arrived to his previous flat. It shows to him, from the shaking of his hands and the ringing of thoughts in his ears—from hearing a loud single gunshot. And slowly, as he opened the door to his former flat, and seeing his bestfriend’s body collapsing—hand with a gun falling to his side, wide-eyed unblinking, dropping slowly to the floor, eyes now closed—and as he called his name—suddenly, the answer came in a flash to his mind._

⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙

Sherlock has never felt this kind of pain and regret in all of his life. 

It’s as if his mind palace has unlocked a door to a room that he didn’t even know it ever exist.

A door like his own Pandora’s Box, that contains all of the emotions he had learned to shut off. And that seeing the man he just learned to cherish in his life, lying still on the carpeted floor—blue eyes darkened by the shadowed room, head blown, dark red blood slowly crawling and dampening the floor—Sherlock felt pain through his bones. He couldn’t think, his mind shut off. The two years that he’s been away dismantling Moriarty’s network, trying to keep John safe, John alive, now suddenly meant nothing. 

Sherlock slumped to the floor, crying his heart out.

How can he be so dumb? He watched John from afar every single day, living like a shell. He watched as his doctor suffer from the loss of his bestfriend, the loss of him.. He watched as John seem to get better in a year. He witnessed him finding a job, getting in touch with old friends, going out with them but how can he not noticed, that John Watson remained an empty shell? That what he’s feeling, John also felt. He missed John so much. He even had a thought of revealing himself alive to his bestfriend, a month after his ‘suicide’. That he’s well and that John should continue to live. That he will come back after his mission is done. That he wanted to be with John. Finally, he wanted to be John’s Sherlock and Sherlock wanted John to be his. His John. But now all of it was lost.  
Nothing else mattered other than John. 

John being safe, John being well, John, John… Now John is dead. 

And it’s all his fault. 

Sherlock hitched a breath as he looked up on the top shelf in the room. He stared on the space between the dusty books and an old beaker for a long time and then he looked down to the gun John’s hand was still holding.

He looked up again, and mouthed something, as a small flash of red blinked at him.

This time, he didn’t think.  
He’s tired of thinking.  
He knew this will eventually come.  
He knew this will happen.

Removing a glove from his hand, he closed his eyes as he held John’s hand with its fading warmth. He leaned in placing a soft kiss on John’s forehead, tears falling from his eyes.  
And with his other hand, he swiftly discard the handgun from John, positioned it in his temple and pulled the trigger. 

And as the camera hidden above the shelf blinked red, whoever was on the other side of the lens, witnessed, as the tall man fell on the other side of the other body, hand still clasped with one another, breathing stilled.

⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙●⊙

The busy streets outside buzz of people walking to and fro, cabs picking up passengers, police sirens can be heard somewhere. Chattering and laughing from bystanders, the usual London noise filled the air, and somehow unaware of the fate of two men who have met their tragic end. A Shakespearean tale in a bright afternoon—where inside 221B Baker Street, the world remained still.


End file.
